SIGIL: A World In Strife
by Chris7221
Summary: REIMAGINING. Twenty years ago, the world ended. The paradise that mankind had built crumbled to dust. Now, humanity lives under the reign of the oppressive and mysterious Order. Those who dare rise up against it are brutally smashed down. But there is a new hope. A weapon of incredible power. The Sigil.
1. Chapter 1

I don't care that this section is actually for the new Strife MOBA. Rogue was first by something like fifteen years. If you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, then go look up either "Strife Rogue Entertainment" or "Strife 1996". Yes, the game is crude by today's standards, but it's one of the first FPS/RPG hybrids, it was ahead of its time in a lot of ways, and it's surprisingly good.

Kind of AU, this is a reimagining of the Strife universe. There are some elements I've kept, and some I've dropped, in addition to a lot of things I've added in. I've kept most of the characters and added some new ones. The Sigil is still there, of course, as are the Spectres and the Entity. The neo-medieval thing I've kept somewhat, but not in the same way. It's definitely a darker verse, but I'm not sure if it's going to be more serious. There's influence from Half-Life 2, Bethesda Fallout, and other fiction that didn't exist in 1996.

* * *

**Prologue: Forgotten Past, Stolen Future**

_Twenty years ago, the world ended._

_Billions dead. Cities pulverized. Civilization collapsed. Our paradise was gone._

_We saw it coming. 622 Rogue, headed straight for Earth. But it wasn't big enough to do real damage._

_They were wrong. Dead wrong._

_There was something on that asteroid. Some kind of disease._

_It was airborne before we knew it. It couldn't be contained._

_Everyone was infected. A lot of them died. They were the lucky ones._

_Some of the survivors were deformed. Most of them... just forgot._

_As the last lights of civilization died, a new light appeared... if you could call it that._

_A few of us started hearing things. Thought it was the voice of God._

_Doesn't matter what it was. It didn't take long for the Order to take over what was left._

_I don't know where they got what they had. I don't know how they got it._

_They murdered women and children, burned settlements to the ground, shot anyone who objected._

_When the dust settled, what was left was in their hands, shaped in their image._

_But not everyone accepted it. We couldn't fight, but we could run and we could hide._

_I was alive in the old world. I don't remember much, but it never used to be this way._

_We can't live like this. Humanity isn't meant to live like this._

_We won't live like this._

* * *

XCVG Systems Presents  
**SIGIL: A World in Strife**

**Chapter 1: The Escape**

The room was typical Order. The walls were stone, built with a centuries-old technique that worked amazingly well in the New World. Though dirty, they were plain apart from the banners on the walls and the locked door at one end. On closer inspection, one might note the security camera mounted on one wall, which looked

The man in the chair noted all that, and dismissed it as irrelevant. He was more concerned with the figure in front of him, an Acolyte.

The standard foot soldier of the Order, nobody knew exactly what an Acolyte was. Their bodies were obscured by dull grey armour plating and a matching undersuit, and their faces were masked by a full helmet with smoked eye slits. They spoke with a mechanical, modulated monotone.

"What is your name, peasant?" the Acolyte asked flatly.

"Jason Bourne," the man lied. There was something familiar and ironic about that name, but he couldn't place it. Like most of the people in York, he remembered little of the Old World.

"Jason Bourne" was not sure if the Acolyte had believed him or not. "What is your occupation?"

"Actually, I came here looking for work," he replied. That was true. He had come to Tarnhill because there were rumours that a job was available. Of course, his line of work was something the Order frowned upon, to say the least.

The Acolyte robotically asked, "What are your skills?"

"I'm not actually sure." He shrugged. Though it looked like a casual gesture, he was actually undoing the ropes that bound him to the chair.

"You carried illegal goods. Explain."

"They weren't illegal where I came from."

"You took suspicious actions. Explain them," the Acolyte ordered. A human would have asked where he came from, but these Acolytes were dumb as stumps. They were probably reading from some script somewhere.

The ropes were starting to come free, now. "Well, I was kind of bored. You know how it gets, right?"

The Acolyte paused, presumably thinking. Finally, it said, "The conclusion is that you are a rebel. You will be treated as such."

"Seriously, that's the best you could come up with?" He spat at the machine, the bindings on his hands almost free. "Fuck you."

In one smooth motion, he drew the hidden blade from his sleeve, brought it around, and slammed it through the Acolyte's neck. Deep crimson blood soaked the blade, the material around the neck, and the grey cloth of the man's glove.

As the Acolyte grabbed at its bleeding neck, he brought the punch dagger around again, driving it hard through where he thought the spinal cord should be. The Acolyte stopped resisting and crumpled to the ground.

Disappointingly, this Acolyte was unarmed. The Order may have been a bunch of religious fanatics, but they weren't stupid. The man slowly opened the wooden door.

Okay, maybe the Order was stupid. Another Acolyte was standing guard on the door, with his back turned to it. This was too easy. The man stepped forward and quickly drew his dagger across the Acolyte's neck, splattering the opposite wall with blood. This Acolyte was armed with a pistol, which the man took before heading down the hallway toward the exit.

* * *

To be honest, I'll probably never finish this, because I've got so much else going on. But we'll see.


	2. Chapter 2

Back by popular demand.

* * *

**Chapter 2: The New World**

"Well, shit," the Mercenary said to nobody in particular.

He had just stepped out of a small Order facility, having just broken out of a holding cell by force. The blood of several acolytes was literally on his hands. It wasn't important enough to ring the main alarm, or at least he hoped it wasn't. Order troops were probably already on their way through the teleporter system. For most people, it would be a nightmare scenario.

For him, it was Tuesday. He holstered the pistol under his jacket, wiped his gloves on the stone wall, and strode into the crowd of peasants milling about the village.

_Ah yes, Tarnhill_, the Mercenary thought to himself. _What a quaint little village._

Tarnhill was typical of a New World village, a mix of solid stone buildings and rickety wattle-and-daub shacks. A small square near the centre was paved with cobblestone, but the rest was dirt or grass. Like many other locations, the Order flouted its presence with an imposing castle at one edge. Perhaps a thousand people lived in the village, eking out simple and short lives. He'd heard stories of the Old World, how people lived brilliant lives in cities of millions.

The Mercenary wouldn't know. Like most of the world, he didn't remember anything before the Plague. He'd dug through the ruins of Old World cities from time to time, but it was nothing but junk and rubble to him.

As he headed down the hill toward the local tavern, the Mercenary felt someone or something bump into him. Most would have dismissed the bump as nothing, but he knew exactly what it was. A brush-pass. He reached into his pocket, and sure enough there was a slip of paper there that hadn't been there before.

It was probably the Rebellion. Only they did secret agent shit like that. He'd encountered the Rebellion once before, and it had been... less than cordial.

Either that or some sick fuck in the Order had literally handed him his death warrant. With them, you never know.

He continued to his destination, the tavern. One of the few forms of recreations left in the oppressive world, it was a gathering point for working stiffs and lowlifes alike. It was a good busy place to read a secret note without arising suspicion, and if he was about to get his head blown off he could use a drink first. Nobody paid him any attention as he entered and took a seat in the back, away from the bar.

The server was a woman, not much to look at but seeing any woman in a New World town was a rarity. The official line was that women were inherently evil and less than human. The Order had purged most of the women from the Earth and the few left were little more than property. This one was dressed up in a skimpy dress and fake smile. He knew the type. She did more than serve tables.

She leaned in, giving him a good view of her bosom. "What can I get ya?"

He made his intent clear immediately. "Just a mug of ale."

A look of disappointment momentarily crossed her face before the fake smile came back. "Sure thing. Comin' right up."

He fingered the note in his pocket, but left it there until the barmaid came back and handed him a frothy mug. Taking a drag of the strong, bitter brew, he pulled out the note and read it.

_Room A3 if you want to live._

He cursed, "Fuck."

The Mercenary considered his position for a moment. He knew exactly where _Room A3_ was. He'd passed it on the way out of the Order detention facility. So if he wanted to live, he'd have to go back to the place where he was most likely to get shot. On the other hand, if it _was_ the Order, they easily could have wasted him while he was drinking his ale.

"Fuck." He fished a gold coin out of his other pocket and left it on the table. It was probably enough to pay for four beers, but in the end, it was just gold. In his line of work, there were more important currencies. A military-grade round could go for two or three gold pieces.

The Mercenary left the tavern and headed back toward the holding facility. He had a bad feeling about this. He reached into his coat and checked his purloined pistol again. Damn, he should have retrieved his own weapons. But his priority was to get out, and he had no idea where they'd taken his trusty rifle.

He checked the area before drawing his weapon and slowly pushing open the heavy wooden door to the holding facility. It looked the way he'd left it. Dead Acolyte, broken lights, bloody stone floor. No signs of life, hostile or otherwise.

He advanced slowly, pistol in his hands. Room A3 was not far from the entrance and he'd passed it on the way out. He just had to follow the trail of bodies around the corner to the room. He hadn't been in there before, so he entered quickly with gun drawn.

The room was the Order version of an office, with a simple desk, computer terminal, and bookshelf. A man in a red tunic sat behind the desk. He raised his hands. "Put down the gun, my disreputable friend. My name is Rowan. I am the local administrator, among other things. I mean you no harm. In fact, I have a proposition for you."

"Okay." The Mercenary kept his gun raised. "What kind of proposition are we talking about?"

"Time is short so I will make this succinct. Some... associates of mine have a friend on the inside. Beldin, a minor functionary. Unfortunately, he has changed his mind on a few things and thus is no longer their friend. His silence is golden, if you understand what I am saying."

"You're with the Rebellion." It was more a statement than a question.

He shrugged. "I will neither confirm nor deny that."

"And if I say no?"

"Well, as they say, you are on your own."

He chewed his lip "Okay. Where is Beldin?"

"Not here. In the Sanctuary, of course."

The Mercenary sighed deeply. "Let me get this straight. You want me to break _into_ the Sanctuary?"

Rowan smirked. "Precisely."


End file.
